Open it and see what's inside…

Wrong Number

Shouting at the top of my lung, I slam my phone so hard I think it may snap in two. A muttered curse promptly follows the noise of the impact.

Rolling on his side, David furrows his eyebrows, obviously disturbed by the little show I’ve just created.

“Again!”

I rub my sore eyes, allowing another curse to slip past my lips.

“Fucking annoying! That’s third time already!”

Three times in the middle of the night, when people are sleeping heavily after a hard day’s work.

“Maybe someone really needs help…”

“Then they should call a police instead of some fucking stranger! Wouldn’t dial ‘911’ far easier?”

Clearly David doesn’t share my vexation, despite he himself is also victimized to this midnight disturbance.

“Don’t be so cold…”

“Easy for you to say since you don’t work ten fucking hours every day!”

With an exasperated huff I lie back down, pulling the blanket over my head and shutting my eyes. Those stupid wrong numbers have already taken too much of my precious time and the last thing I want is to loiter about the office like a zombie with two heavy bags under my eyes. Not tomorrow. Not the day I finally gain my long-awaited promotion!

I might have heard David’s sigh but I pay it no mind.

The phone rings again when I’m about to drop off.

“You sick bastard!”

I yell at the phone right after picking it up.

“Ouch.”

David snatches the phone from my hand none-too-gently before I have the chance to hang it up.

“Hello? Do you need any help? Hello?”

Boiling with silent anger, I lie back down.

“Hello? HELLO?”

“Just hang it up already!”

I snarl at my boyfriend after his fourth “hello”.

“Strange…”

“What?”

“There’s no one. Only some sloppy sounds… like, like rubber boots stamping on puddle. Listen!”

I press my ear to the phone half out of David’s beckon and half out of my own curiosity. There’s indeed some strange noises over the phone but I can make out neither what they are or what is causing them. Heck, those noises may be just a static on the line and not any actual sounds. Damn David and his ridiculous imagination!

“Told you it’s wrong number.”

A sense of triumph eases my earlier annoyance at David as I pull the blanket up to my chin, trying to get back to my sleep.

After a few minutes, I realize I can’t have any sleep if my boyfriend keeps sitting with the phone pressed to his ear and the bed lamp on like that. When I pull the blanket down in a huff, I’m at lost to see David’s handsome face strangely pale under the dim bed lamp and a sheen of sweat coating his forehead.

What has left of my irritation is swept clean by such sight; my hand reaches his face, pushing away a damp sandy lock.

Snatching the phone from his hesitated hand, I toss it on the table, turn off the lamp and half push David down the bed. “Sleep!”, I half-command him before wiping the sweat on his forehead with a brief kiss, tasting salt.

The way I deliberately put the phone ensures there is no other wrong-numbers to disturb our sleep. Should have done it earlier.

…

“See? There’s no news about a psychopath on a killing spree like you’ve imagined.”

I hum triumphantly when I lay out today’s newspaper on the table, beside David’s plate of toast and blueberry jam.

His ocean-blue eyes narrow as they skim through the pages, elegant brows knitting.

“But you have to hear that chuckle. It’s chilling! And those sounds…”

“A sick joke and that’s that.”

“Anyone who chuckles like that is clearly not right in the head.”

“Exactly why we call them a sicko. If you’re so intrigued by it, why not turn it into a script? Some slasher movie about a psycho who allows his victims to make three phone calls before butchering them? It must sell better than your usual chick flicks. Slasher movies are the current trend, you know.”

David remains unresponsive to my quip. When I begin to think he’s offended, a smile suddenly creeps up his lips.

“Maybe that’s not a bad idea at all. Should give it a try.”

I reply with a haughty smirk from behind my coffee mug.

“Will I have a part in it?”

“Maybe there’s a part for the screenwriter’s girlfriend if I speak to the producer. Probably one of the victims. No, the first victim. Makes it special for you.”

“Already planned to kill me, huh? Fuck you.”

I punch his arm, laughing along with him.

“Don’t mind if you do.”

Downing the content of my morning dose of caffeine in one gulp, I leave a coffee-lipstick smear on his cheek before grabbing my coat and stand up.

“Would love to but can’t. I’ll be late tonight. No need to wait for me, OK?”

“Again?”

“Can’t help.”

I turn on my heel and walk out of the door, only to be greeted by a morning chill.

My breath comes out a thin veil of milky fog; I tighten the coat around my frame and hurry my feet.

Work. And more work.

…

Ten to midnight is when I step out from the pleasant heat of my car into the freezing atmosphere. Knackered and intoxicated, I pull the coat tightly around my body and begin my walk from the parking place to our apartment. About eight hundred meters and a few minutes’ walk and I’m happily united with my soft bed and warm blanket.

Despite the winds scraping my face quite painfully, I inhale a good portion of cold, fresh air. As I exhale, I can feel an amount of alcohol vaporizing from my body, clearing my head just a little so that my steps slightly less falter.

Here I am, standing at the entrance of the urban monster’s filthy intestine, namely the poorly lit and trash-littered alley that leads to my apartment. Owning a rather affordable apartment in this expensive city center means having to endure certain downsides: having no convenient parking place is one; this, another.

I inhale carefully, trying to take the least of the fetid smell that takes permanent residence in this place. David laughs at me every time I wrinkle my nose as we saunter down the alley but my boy doesn’t have the slightest idea of how much it disturbs me. Hypersensitivity can be a bitch sometimes, well, most of the time.

I pull up my scarf around my nose and begin to walk down the goddamn alley. The night is completely mute, save for the echoes of my heels on the puddly ground.

No…, not just the sounds my heels. There are another.

Footsteps!

Rubber boots!

The words suddenly pop out and I feel a sharp chill instantly running along my spine, down to my toes.

For whatever goddamn reason, the joke I made with David this morning is rewinding in my head.

A psycho who allows his victims to make three phone calls before butchering them.

It can’t be this coincidental!

I quicken my steps as much as my heels can manage as I’m battling with the fear that gets amplified with each footstep my ears catch. There’s no need to tell how miserable I’m failing.

Post navigation

2 thoughts on “Wrong Number”

This is the first time I’ve read your story and I love it. It sends chills all over my body (in a nice way). The ending is a bit confusing though. I’m not sure the ‘he’ at the end refers to which character.
Anyway, I want to compliment you on your good command of English. Can’t wait for your new stories. 😀